


A Lot of Little Things

by FrozenWings



Series: Untitled Young Cassandra Series [5]
Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: (hopefully), Christmas, Christmas Tree, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, LITTLE CASS, One Shot Collection, Slice of Life, fluffy fluffy fluff, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27257413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenWings/pseuds/FrozenWings
Summary: A collection of one-shots for my 'Untitled Young Cassandra' series. Basically, a bunch of slice-of-life, everyday goings-on centered around Cass and her father that may not be terribly exciting but worth telling nonetheless. Updates are occasional and dependent on whether or not I'm working on a multi-chapter fic.Most recent installment: Oh, Christmas Tree. Set during Cass's first Christmas at the castle. The barracks Christmas tree is never much to look at, all twisted trunk that can't decide which way to go and crooked branches that look as though they never knew needles. And yet, for some reason Cap can't fathom, Cass can't stop staring at the thing...
Relationships: Captain of Corona's Guard & Cassandra (Disney)
Series: Untitled Young Cassandra Series [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817698
Comments: 14
Kudos: 17





	1. Adventures in Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the events of 'Lovely, Dark, and Deep.' Being stuck in bed with a broken foot is perhaps the most boring thing on earth, as far as Cass is concerned, especially when its a rainy day and her dad is too busy to read to her. Well, no matter; she'll just find something to do herself. In other words, a story where a frustrated Cass is predictably bored, a guilt-ridden Cap is predictably nearing the end of his proverbial rope, and what ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my shiny new one-shot collection, home of low-stakes, slice-of-life, small-scale adventures of the everyday! I absolutely love one-shot collections, and am quite pleased to start my own; I hope you all enjoy it as well! As stated in the work summary, all of these are set when Cass is 4-6 (my favorite age to write her), unless otherwise noted, and all are in keeping with the canon of this series, again, unless otherwise noted. 
> 
> This first story was written while I was posting 'Lovely, Dark, and Deep' in September 2020. It starts off kinda slow, but I'm quite happy with it. If you haven't read 'Lovely, Dark, and Deep,' this story should still make sense (the antics certainly will), but I do invite you to take a look at the source; perhaps you'll enjoy it. But enough from me; on with the show!

"Golly, Cap, are you sure about that?" Captain Williams asked, eying the daunting stack of paperwork his lieutenant had just scooped off the office desk. "That's a lot of paperwork, especially for one man to commit to finishing in one day."

"Yes, I'm sure," Cap replied in a perturbed tone. He cocked a brow over at the skeptical captain. "What? You don't think I can handle it?"

"Oh, I think you can handle it," Williams conceded, grabbing his sword and fastening it around his waist, preparing to, along with several others, ride out into the rain to see what could be done about the reported flooding down at the shore (building the capital city on an island certainly had its drawbacks), not missing the guilty look Cap was sending towards the weapon. "I don't think you can handle it _and_ a certain someone."

Cap pressed his lips together, trapping the sigh that would undoubtedly send the top few sheets flying off his stack (he did not need that right now). "Cass will be fine."

"Cass will be bored out of her mind, like's she's been for the past fortnight." He paused in his preparations, laying a hand on Cap's shoulder. "Look, none of that-" he indicated the pile of paper drudgery with his free hand, "-is urgent. Take the day and read to her, play blocks with her, do something to get her mind off things. And don't give me any of that crap about not pulling your weight and needing to take on extra work 'cause you're not riding out as much or as far right now; we all understand." He fixed Cap with a knowing smile, unnerving blue eyes that always seemed to see too much full of fatherly empathy. "There's no shame in putting your daughter first."

Cap scowled at the cabinet of weaponry standing at attention on the opposite wall rather than the unnerving blue (ugh, he really wished his captain wasn't so darn perceptive), then shook off the hand, nodded his head in a modified salute, and prepared to take his leave _with_ his pile of documents, saying over his shoulder, "I know what I'm doing. I can handle it. Besides, Cass can't possibly get into anything being stuck in bed."

******************************

“Cassandra, don’t do that.”

Cap’s chair scraped across the floor as he abandoned his paperwork (again) and crossed over to Cass’s bed, where the girl in question was alternately trying to peel away the edge of the bandage wrapped around her foot and shove her fingers under it. “You know you aren’t supposed to mess with that.” 

“But it itches!” Cass whined in protest. She wriggled her hand out of his grasp to clutch at the bedsheets in frustration lips pursed in a pout as she shot daggers at the object of her discontent. 

“I know,” Cap said unsympathetically, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest as he looked down at the sulking girl on the bed, doing his best to project the no-nonsense demeanor that never failed to yield compliance with his men. “But it has to stay on. You’re just going to have to deal with the itch.”

“Can’t I take it off for five minutes?” 

“No.” 

“Three?” 

“No.” 

“Two?”

“Cassandra...” 

“Just a few seconds! Then we can put it right back on and no one else has to know! Please?” 

Cap dragged a hand across his face, releasing a grumbling sigh. She was a smart girl; they’d had this conversation several times a day every day for the past two weeks; surely she knew his answer. There was really no good reason for her to keep asking that and preventing him from doing any meaningful work. Castigations were ready on his tongue, both for fiddling with the bandage and what had to be either willful ignorance or some antagonistic desire on her part, but he found them stuck fast as he took in the beseeching way she was staring up at him, desperate eyes begging him to say ‘yes’ just this once. 

Another sigh flew from between his lips. Did she know what that look did to him? He shook his head commiseratively, all thoughts of reprimands gone for the time being. “Sorry, hon. You know it has to stay.”

“Uggghhh!!!” Cass groaned dramatically, throwing her head back before attacking the bandage with renewed vigor. “I. Want. It. _Off!_ It’s itchy and heavy and I’m tired of wearing it and staying in bed and..and...!” She growled viciously as she ran out of words to adequately describe her feelings toward the hated plaster and scrabbled at it with both hands, nails making faint scratching sounds. The sight of her mini-tirade sent a pang through Cap’s chest. Poor kid really was having a tough time of it. Of course, though, it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this coming. 

From the second he first laid eyes on her broken foot, bent out at an nausea-inducing angle in the bottom of that godforsaken muddy pit, he had known she wouldn’t be pleased with what the weeks ahead held. At first he’d been too filled with relief to care, simply glad that they weren’t weeks he would spend burying and mourning her. And, in truth, the first few days had been deceptively easy. The aching foot, coupled with the aftermath of her adventure in the pit, had resulted in an unusually subdued Cassandra who was content to just lay quietly and watch the goings-on outside the window, intermittently dozing throughout the day to make up for sleep lost to nightmares (she insisted they didn’t scare her, but also never once objected to the way he sat with her afterwards, pulling her close against his side until she drifted off). But as the days marched steadfastly on, relief made room for reality and time proved to be quite the salve; the wolf found better things to do than haunt the dreams of a five-year-old, and the ache from beneath the bandage faded into tolerability as it became a regular part of her day, meaning Cassandra’s mind was freed up to realize just what her situation entailed. 

And she hated it.

Suddenly being unable to do anything remotely active did not sit well with the spirited, ready-for-anything-so-long-as-it-was-exciting Cassandra or her temper. Hardly a day went by without it snapping as he, Captain Williams, and Frau Dagmar (the only other two people who agreed to help with the miniature harridan) were forced to repeatedly tell her no, they could not remove the bandage, and no, she could not go outside (no matter how much Captain Williams insisted there was no harm in carrying her outside to sit for an hour or two, fear of knocking her foot in the process always won out in Cap's mind; the walk to their apartment had been nerve-wracking enough and, no, he wasn’t paranoid). Sure, all three of them had been trying their best to keep her occupied and content (or, as content as could be reasonably expected), but stories and knot-tying only went so far, especially when competing with a constantly itching foot mocking the girl in question.

Cap knelt at the side of Cass’s cot, gently pulling the furious hands away from the unyielding bandage. She made a dismayed whimpering sound in the back of her throat as he thwarted her determined efforts to rid herself of both bandage and itch, and squeezed them gently. “Cassandra, sweetie, don’t you want your foot to get better?” 

“Yes,” she admitted ruefully, not meeting his eyes. 

“Then the bandage needs to stay on. Remember what the physician said?” 

“That I’m a _very delightful_ little girl.” 

Her imitation of the man’s tone, drawn out and dripping with sarcasm, was spot-on, and Cap’s sputtered laugh was ill-concealed by his ensuing cough. There was nothing remotely funny about the entire broken-foot situation, but he couldn’t deny the amusement wrought by the memory of Cass’s encounter with the physician as he checked her over the morning following their ill-fated excursion. Or, at least, tried to.

Less than five minutes after he stepped towards her cot, the man had thrown up his hands and decided that if the obstinate, uncommonly sassy child was feeling well enough to try and kick him with her good foot, there was no point in him sticking around. Apparently, despite the dim light, haze of pain, and unfathomable exhaustion, Cass had still possessed the mental clarity to commit the man who had painfully twisted her foot back in place then slapped on the plaster prison to memory and felt a need to see to it that he was duly punished for his actions (Cap's lingering guilt and aforementioned relief had snuffed out his disciplinary streak for the time being, meaning he had no response beyond simply mumbling an insincere apology to the man and an even less sincere admonishment to his daughter).

“Yes, yes he did say that.” Cap admitted once he found his voice again. “I was thinking of the other thing.”

“That he’d seen drunks who less...” she hesitated, brows scrunched as she mulled over an unfamiliar word. “...ord'nry.” 

Cap doubled his efforts to not laugh outright at her...interesting corruption of the English language. “The word was ‘ornery,’ sweetheart. It means someone’s being difficult.” She gave the smallest of self-satisfied smiles at that; sometimes he swore she _liked_ antagonizing people (Ethel, he knew, would attest). “I meant what he said about your foot.” 

The smile dropped and Cass gave a resigned sigh. “That it needs to stay still to get better.”

“Right,” Cap said, loosing one of his hands to rumple her hair approvingly. “And the bandage will make sure it does, which is why it needs to stay put.” 

Cass huffed, pulling her hands out of his grasp to cross her arms petulantly across her chest. “Easy for him to say. If his foot itches, he can scratch it.” 

The chuckle was finally allowed free as Cap stood, leaning over to land a quick kiss on her forehead on his way up. “You probably have a point there. Now, can I count on you to stop trying to take it off?”

“Yes, Dad,” Cass answered with a sigh, nodding slowly.

“Good girl.”

He glanced around, noticing a couple of books stacked on the table next to her bed. “Here, why don’t you look at this-” he steadied the stack while he grabbed the bottommost one, hoping that it’s position as such meant it had been awhile since she last looked at it, “-while I get some work done, eh?”

Cass hesitated, chewing her lip as she stared at the book in his hand. “Can...can you read to me?” 

She turned her stare to him, and it was nearly as pleading as the one from earlier, a trace of the old, old fear that used to color all her questions only just visible. He frowned, hating the answer he was going to have to give.

“Sorry, hon, I’ve got work to do.” _Work that's technically extra and can wait_ , that insufferable internal voice supplied, causing him to suppress a grumble (figures that the guilt-alleviating solution he devised for work only begot a new breed; why did everything have to have a catch?). "When I’m done, though. ‘Kay?” 

“Okay.” Cass wilted a little, but took the offered book without complaint. It fell open to a page somewhere in the middle, depicting a lavish illustration of Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt, pursuing a stag on horseback surrounded by her maidens and hounds. She instantly fell to studying the image despite having stared a it hundreds of times before, eying the goddess' drawn bow with a special interest (no matter what Dagmar said, he rather liked to see her budding proclination towards weaponry). 

Leaving his daughter thusly engaged, Cap headed back to his waiting work, trying to ignore the two warring tendrils of guilt in his chest and his annoyingly talkative conscience. 

_You know, if you hadn’t had your sword she wouldn’t be asking for a story now; she’d be-._

_Shut up,_ he commanded as he reached for a shift schedule. Cassandra was fine. Both her and the storybook would still be there when he was done; no sense dwelling on...that. 

With a quick shake of his head, he shoved the Cassandra-related tendril to slink in the back of his mind for the time being along with the harrowing thoughts of what almost had been, turning his focus to the form in his hand. He was still a guard, after all, and had guard-related responsibilities that could not be ignored.

The tendril fidgeted in his chest, prickling and distracting, and he swallowed a groan, rubbing his eyes. Something told him his stack of work would take longer than initially expected, and the tendril fidgeted harder at the thought.

******************************

Page after vibrant page was flipped, colors and shapes flashing before Cass’s eyes, and though she didn’t stop, she knew exactly what they were. She had looked through the book of Greek myths more times than she could count (all the way up to fifteen now) and knew the names of the formidable figures and the stories that went with them by heart, her mind supply each and every one as they darted past: Apollo (not the horse), Theseus and the minotaur, Athena (she paused on that one to admire the owl perched on her shoulder), Bellerophon soaring on the mighty Pegasus before falling to his doom (he was dumb), Icarus flying to the sun before falling to _his_ doom (he was also dumb), and Narcissus in love with his own reflection (the dumbest of all; Greek heroes, she had long ago decided, were a stupid lot). 

She sighed, closing the book on its final picture (Actaeon being mauled to death by his own hounds after he was turned into a stag as punishment for being an idiot) and set it aside. Though Cass loved that book despite the rampant stupidity (if anything it made her feel incredibly smart because she would never be so foolish, never mind her foot), she had been paging through books for _days_ and was, well, tired of it. If her dad could read to her, that’d be a different matter entirely; she could ask him questions, tell him what she thought about the book (he agreed with her about the stupid heroes part) and just be with him, which was always nice. As it was though, he was at the table, bent over paperwork, leaving her to try and entertain herself with pictures and remembered tales like she had yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. 

A breath huffed from her chest as she scowled at her foot. She wanted to _do_ something! But thanks to that ridiculous girl pushing her in the even more ridiculous hole, she couldn’t, because she was stuck in bed for...let’s see...a bunch more weeks while her foot healed (and, no, there wasn’t anything they could do to speed it up. She asked. At least fifteen times).

Cass flopped back on her pillows, staring dully out the window at the persistent rain that had driven everyone, people and horses alike, indoors so there wasn’t even anything interesting to look at out there. _Bored bored bored bored! Ugh, I want something to do!_ She glanced over at her dad, glowering at papers covered in enigmatic black squiggles similar to the ones in her books. Too bad she couldn’t read, then maybe she could help him. That would solve her boredom problem twofold: not only would it give her something to do, it’d help him finish quicker, then they could do something together. But she couldn’t read, so that fantasy was abandoned in favor of staring out the window again, hazel eyes tracking water droplets as they raced down the glass and mentally trying to guess which one would ‘win’ and reach the sil first (she was _really_ bored). 

***drip***

Cass blinked, forgetting to keep following the one particularly speedy drop she had been watching. Was that a- 

***drip***

She sat upright, ears keen, waiting for the sound to come a third time so she knew it was real and not imagined; she had overheard someone mention the possibility of her going ‘stir crazy,’ and while she didn’t know what that meant (something told her it had nothing to do with cooking), she had a hunch hearing things that weren’t there was part of it. 

***drip***

Yes! There it was! Sanity proven! And she knew that sound: there was a leak in the roof. Well, that wouldn’t do; leaks, she knew, were trouble, and since her dad clearly hadn’t heard it, it was up to her to let him know (she loved being helpful like that). "Daddy?”

“Yes, Cassandra?” he said distractedly, clearly too engrossed in his work to hear the ***drips***. 

“I think the roof’s leaking.”

Cap looked up from his papers and scanned the ceiling, searching for dark patches of wetness, then returned to his work. “I don’t see any leaks.”

"But I heard one!” 

"It was probably just something outside.” 

***drip***

“There it is again!” Cass cried, craning her neck this way and that, trying to find the source of the ***drip***.

“Cassandra, please,” Cap said, rubbing the bridge of his nose (something she had been seeing him do a lot lately). “I can’t see any leaks.” 

“But I can _hear_ one!” Cass repeated, insistent. Cap grumbled deep in his throat, but looked up from his work again, brow furrowed, clearly listening to see if there was any truth to her words. Nothing sounded except the drumming of the rain. He opened his mouth to speak and Cass shrank back a little in anticipation of a scold.

***drip***

Cap’s mouth snapped shut so fast she swore she heard the *click* of teeth meeting teeth and he whipped his head around, searching for the sound. “See?” Cass said triumphantly. 

“Of all the things...” Cap muttered to himself as he once again visually inspected the ceiling, then stood and strode about the room, searching the floor for puddles while Cass watched with unbridled interest. “I can’t find any sign of a leak,” he finally announced, a laughing ***drip*** following his words. “It must be outside or in one of the neighboring rooms.” 

He turned back to the table and reclaimed his seat, Cass looking on in dismay. “Aren’t you gonna go find it?” She knew she wouldn't be able to go with him, but listening to him ransack the neighboring rooms and hall for the source of the ***drip*** was more interesting than watching him work (plus she’d be left alone; maybe she could work her fingers under the bandage enough to scratch that obnoxious itch). 

“I can’t go running around the barracks hunting down a leak today, Cassandra, especially if it means rummaging through someone else’s room. We’re just going to have to let it go.” ***drip*** He shuddered just the way the horses did when something _really_ bothered them. “No matter how annoying that sound is.” 

Cass groaned, once again flopping onto the pillows. He had used his ‘I’m-not-changing-my-mind’ voice, which meant that avenue for entertainment was permanently closed. 

***drip***

Cass glowered at the ceiling. What was the point of finding a leak if no one was gonna do anything about it? Was it even still being helpful if no one did? Either way, now she was back to where she started, bored, waiting for her dad to finish working. Idly, she let her stare drift from the window to wander about the room, mentally listing the random things they landed on (again, super bored here): Daddy’s bed. Fireplace. Windowbench. Book. Daddy’s sword (she couldn’t wait until she was old enough to carry one). Bug on the ceiling. Chair. Hold on-

Hazel jumped back to the ceiling, searching for the bug they had spotted scurrying a moment before and easily finding it. A black speck, not too large but big enough to be easily visible from her cot, darted across the ceiling like it was hurrying to get somewhere important. Here we go! This was something (not a vey big something, but she was desperate)!

_I wonder where it’s going?_ she thought, eagerly following its trek. As though in answer, it stopped when it reached the crevice where the ceiling met the wall adjacent to her cot and sat there, as still as if it were a speck of dirt. Cass continued staring, waiting to see if it’d move again and maybe start spinning a web if it was a spider. Nature seemed to be conspiring against her today, though, because the bug hunkered down, unmoving and clearly intending to stay put for the time being. 

_Hmph. Just my luck,_ Cass frowned. She wanted the bug to move again and go back to being mildly entertaining. She played with some curly strands of hair, eyes still glued to the black dot, thinking. Blowing on bugs made them move, but even if she could stand up it was too high to reach. Poking at them worked too, but that wasn’t an option for the same reasons. Too bad she didn't have a way to blow at or poke it from down here. Inspiration suddenly lit her face. Or maybe she did!

Not tearing her gaze from he bug, Cass groped along the mattress, feeling the various lumps and bumps of blankets and sheets for a familiar squishy one, allowing a smile to claim her face once her fingers brushed against the woolen felt of Mine, her owl. Taking him in hand, she sat up, hefted him a little, pulled back, and threw him. Mine sailed through the air toward the bug before smacking the wall quite a ways below her target, falling back to her bed with a quiet *thump*. 

Cass huffed a little, looking from Mine (whose yellow sewn-on eyes somehow seemed dazed) to the bug and back, thinking. It wasn’t terribly high up; she should be able to make that shot, or at least hit near enough the bug to make it move. Maybe if she adjusted her angle? 

“Cassandra, what are you doing?” Cap asked from the table at the sound of a second *thump*, resisting the urge to lift his eye from his work. 

“Nothing Daddy,” Cass said innocently, leaning over and stretching to reach Mine where he’d fallen on the floor, black hair falling about her like a curtain. Okay, that throw was too hard. Let’s try something in the middle. 

“I hope you aren’t throwing your owl again.” Cap's warning words drifted over from the table across the rom. “Remember what I said last time.” 

“I’m not.” And she wasn’t; preparing to throw her owl and throwing her owl were two entirely different things. 

_Yes!_ This throw had been just right, striking the crevice a little to the right of the bug, causing it to hightail off to the left as a means of seeking refuge from the plush projectile. Cass watched it make its escape, twisting to keep it in view as it followed the wall and ran behind her before stopping again. That was fun! So fun, in fact, that it merited a round two. 

Cass studied the section of wall where the bug was now perched, assessing. This shot would be trickier, especially if she wanted her owl to land where she could reach and not involve her dad (the memory of the other day when he took Mine away for a while until she was ready to ‘treat her things properly’ was still fresh). Perhaps...yes, that would work; if Mine could hit he wall just below the bug hard enough, he’d bounce right back to Cass’s bed where he belonged. Turing around as much as she could without moving her foot, Cass took aim, wound up, and...

Missed. Missed by a mile. Still, the results were at least entertaining: Mine smacked the ceiling instead of the wall, causing the bug to run for its life yet again (disappointingly disappearing into a crack as he decided that staying in the apartment was akin to having a death wish) as the toy veered off at a wide angle towards the curtained-off section of the room where her father and then her would get ready for the day or bed. She couldn’t see where he landed, but judging by the _*crash*_ of smashing pottery and _*splash*_ of startled water she had a pretty good idea. 

Her dad, judging by the way he jumped and whipped his head towards the curtain, must’ve gotten the same idea. “What the he...ck!!” (he’d been cutting off his words like that a lot lately. Weird). Cap glanced at the picture of innocence feigned on he bed, then back to the curtain, the chair once again complaining and scraping across the floor. “Cassandra,” he began tentatively, heading towards the curtain. “Do you know what...” 

The rest of his sentence trailed off as he stared open-mouthed at the plush owl, soaked and looking miserable, sitting in the midst of the broken shards of the washbasin. He rubbed his nose again, sighing, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by a ***drip*** landing on his head. He blinked, feeling the top of his head and studying his hand as it came away wet, then looked up towards the ceiling just in time for another ***drip*** to cheekily land on his eye. 

“I told you there was a leak in here.” 

“Aw, crap.”

******************************

Cass at least had something to watch while her dad swept and mopped up the mess, placed a convenient bucket under the drip (so now it went ***ping!*** instead of ***drip*** ), and set an accusatory Mine by the fire to dry. “Are you _sure_ you have to work?” she asked as he moved to sit back down at the table. 

“Cassandra, we went over this,” he said, and even though she couldn't see his face, she could tell by the sound of his words, wooden and tight as a bowstring, that his patience with her was wearing dangerously thin. “It’s my responsibility, and I need to attend to it. Work first, then I’ll read to you. I know you’re smart enough to understand that.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Now behave. No more trouble. I mean it” 

“ ‘Kay.” He was getting mad, Cass could tell, and the realization subdued her more completely than any amount of pain or disgusting medicine could. Her dad may not have yelled at her too much for running off and falling in the pit, but that didn’t mean she was eternally spared from losing his love. Any day now he could decide that he was sick and tired of reading to her, helping her to the windowbench so she could look out easier, and sticking around the castle so he was always able to come back to their apartment at night (not that she was scared to not have him around after dark; she just preferred it that way). If that happened, then where would she be? Well, not alone maybe, Captain Williams and Frau Dagmar helped take care of her too and they may stick around even if her dad left, but they still weren’t Daddy, and the memory of the mad wolf about to devour her was a pinprick compared to the gut-spilling stab that was the thought of him leaving her life.

So Cass settled back into her pillows, determined to not disturb her dad anymore and preparing for another looonngg stretch of time spent watching racing raindrops. She shuffled around a bit, trying to find a more comfortable position (was it possible to break a mattress by sitting on it too much?). and was instantly stilled by a _***creak***_. Huh. Her mattress had never made that sound before. Other creaks, but not this one, higher pitched and kinda grating. She shifted her weight, trying to make the noise sound again. 

**_*creak*_ **

A grin split her face. Success! The blankets rustled, murmuring concernedly, as Cass moved herself around so she could press on the protesting spring with her hand. 

**_*creak*_ **

What a fun sound! The rest of the mattress was studied with a new interest. Perhaps there were other springs similarly wounded after days spent supporting Cass’s weight? Eager hands pressed and pushed and prodded the mattress, burning ears listening for any other noises that the bed didn’t usually make. 

***SKWERK***

Cass’s eyes went wide with agog. Whoa. _There_ was a sound you didn’t hear every day. 

***SKWERK***

She stifled a giggle. Wow. This sound was even more grating than the first, sending a cringe-y, crawling sensation up and down her spine. As though to be certain of her comparison, Cass made the two disgruntled springs voice their objections to supporting her once more. 

**_*creak*_** ***SWKERK***

Yup. That second one was _way_ more annoying. 

***SWKERK***

She shuddered pleasantly. Again! 

***SKWERK* *SKWERK* *SKWERK***

Then, to add some variety:

**_*creak* *creak*_ *SWKERK* *SKWERK* _*creak*_ *ping!***

The dripping rainwater plummeting into the bucket joined in her symphony of abrasive sounds, and Cass beamed, delighted at the ruckus. 

**_*creak*_ *SKWERK* *ping!* *SWKERK* *SKWERK* *ping!* **

She could do this for hours!

******************************

Cap’s pen quivered as he scratched out his signature on a piece of parchment, a physical manifestation of what had to be his last nerve. A muscle near his eye twitched and he groaned to himself as an _incredibly irritating_ series of _***creaks***_ and ***SKWERKS*** joined the already-annoying ***ping!*** of the leak. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was repetitive, high-pitched sounds that tapped against his eardrums like a lingering droplet from a pump (or drip from a leaky roof) into a metal bucket. Incessantly.

He set down the pen, assessing his signature. It looked like it belonged to a nervous wreck making a Faustian bargain, not a lieutenant of the royal guard. Just great. 

The ***drips*** turned ***pings!*** from the leaky roof had been stirring his sense of agitation the second Cass 'helpfully' brought them to his attention, but he kept it in check as was befitting. Now, though, the **_*creaks*_** and ***SKWERKS*** were forcing it to find some release, and his writing hand had proven to be the choice outlet, with the end result being words that looked as frazzled as he felt. 

He shoved the spurned memo aside and reached for a fresh sheet, resolving to try and tune out the ***pings!*, _*creaks*_ ,** and especially ***SWKERKS*** (how was that even a sound?) so he could get some meaningful work done. Some success was afforded by his efforts at self-discipline: with no mean amount of concentration, the pen scratched out the opening words of the memo, sure and steady as his sword had been when he leaped into the pit to-

The pen stopped, and the memo was forgotten as the table, pen, parchment, and room melted away and he found himself in the mud-coated hell-hole once again. At least, until another jarring _***creak***_ pulled him out of it. _Stay focused._ he admonished himself sternly, hating the weakness his lapse belied. That was the fifth time this afternoon he found himself getting distracted by his thoughts, something that never used to happen but was now a frequent occurrence, typically brought about by choosing extra, not-exactly-pressing work over the requests of a certain bored someone now trying to ruin her bedsprings. Cap considered, regarding the piles of paper with furrowed brow. Would it really be a problem to...?

Hair was mussed as a disquieted hand ran through it. As much as he may want to abandon this document-filled ship and indulge Cass’s simple desire for a story, he couldn’t. He _had_ to do something to make up for his woeful abstinence from the princess searches he hadn’t participated in for nearly a fortnight, the trips to outlying farms to repair the storm damage he’d noted that fateful day, and the chasing down of ne'er do wells across the countryside, no matter how many people spoke to the contrary. His current lighter workload (or, at least, comparatively lighter than what he was wonted to shoulder in the past) was shameful enough. Cass would have to wait until this was done. So, he forced the memo back into the forefront of his thoughts, winced at another ***ping!*** , and did his best to continue ignoring the ambient... 'Noise' wasn’t fit to describe whatever it was that Cass was making.

Turns out, this was easier said than done. Each time he started to scratch out a letter, one of the three _a g g r a v a t i n g_ sounds would leap from Cass’s side of the room, pulling the pen from his control and ruining yet another memo attempt, lopping off a piece of his proverbial fuse with each sheet of wasted parchment. A ***ping!*** turned a word illegible and struck a mental match. A _***creak***_ sent a jagged lightning bolt of ink sprawling across the beige and a flame to devour the wick. But it was a particularly loud ***SKWERK!!!*** which sent his hand careening into the inkwell that finally lit the powder. 

“CASSANDRA!” he bellowed, shooting up from his chair as the spreading black pool ruined not only the memo he was trying to write but several other pieces of work as well as the finish on the table. “WILL YOU CUT THAT OUT!!!” 

He grimaced at the mess he had inadvertently created, reaching for a blotter with one hand and moving the unblemished parchments to drier ground with the other, tongue not stopping all the while. “I told you I needed to get work done. and to _behave_! Making some unholy ruckus is not _behaving!_ Especially when I have told you a thousand times that I need _quiet_ to work! Otherwise, I’ll have to leave and take this elsewhere. You’re a smart girl so I know you can think and realize that doing whatever that was is not helpful! It’s not! For once, can’t you just-“

His remonstrances came to an abrupt halt when he finally turned to look at Cass. She was cowering on the bed, shrinking into the pillows and looking like she wished they’d swallow her whole and let her disappear from his view. Her chest started to quiver like his pen had, a telltale sign that she was fighting a sob. What struck him hardest, though, was the way she was looking at him, hazel eyes just as wide and fearful as they had been in the pit facing the wolf. 

No sounds disturbed the fraught silence save for the ***ping*** , now nervous and self-conscious as though it knew now was not the time to remind them of its intrusive presence. “I-I’m sorr-ry.” Cass’s broken voice was almost more whimper than words. With a despairing sniff, she rolled onto her side as much as she could, pulled up her quilt so it covered her almost completely, and mumbled, “I’ll be quiet n-now. Y-you can stay”

Cap gave a sigh that was kin to a scud as he leaned over the table, not minding the ink that crept onto his fingers. Why was this so hard? Why did he have to have _such_ a temper? Why couldn’t it be easier being both the First Lieutenant and a father? And why, after over a year, wasn’t he getting any better at this? That outburst was completely uncalled for, no way around it. The second he felt his frustration starting to mount as the repetitive dripping and pinging of the leak nibbled at his already fraying nerves he should have stopped, called it a day, and done something with her before she defied physics and smashed the washbasin from across the room. But no, he had to stubbornly keep trying to work until the ear-bleeding cacophony from the springs caused the verbal conflagration to burst forth. And, just like a fortnight ago, it was Cass, now sniveling under her quilt, who paid for his stupidity. 

Again. 

He had no business blaming her for his inability to concentrate, he really didn’t; she was bored, stuck being sedentary, and no doubt even more frustrated by the predicament as him. If anything, she should be the one having an outburst, not him (well, another outburst). It was bad enough that he yelled at her in the pit, now he was doing it again. What an idiot. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, grumbling at his parental incompetence and the wretched workaholic side of him that had led to this whole mess, the side that had been constantly prodding him out of idleness, shame tinting each and every poking thought. 

_There's no shame in putting your daughter first._

Cap lowered his hand, duly staring at the shining black pools, remembering the captain’s words. After a minute, he straightened and set to cleaning up as quickly as he could, a new light in his eyes.

Captain Williams always did give good advice.

******************************

“Cassandra?” 

Cap rested a hand on Cass’s quilt-covered shoulder, rubbing it with his thumb, somewhat cleansed of ink (first order of business once he had a free moment was to find a new washbasin). Upon feeling his presence, Cass spoke from beneath the concealing cover of cloth.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

He took a deep breath, rolling his next words over in his mouth before speaking, so disused was he to saying them; this wouldn't be easy, but, well, for her, he could try. She deserved it. “Sweetie, no. I....uh...sorry." The sniffs stopped, giving way to surprised silence. “That was wrong of me. I shouldn’t have yelled.” Cap cleared his suddenly dry throat, feeling all the world like an uncertain child seeking their parents’ favor after doing wrong. “So...I’m sorry.”

Another sniff from the quilt, then, in a slow, cautious tone, "S’okay." 

“And thank you for letting me know about the leak. You did good.”

“Even if I broke the washbasin?”

“Ah,” Cap said lightly with a shrug, "that thing was probably as old as Captain Williams anyway; one of us would have smashed it sooner or later.” 

That earned a tiny chuckle from the girl, causing relief to wash over Cap, though it was short lived as the laugh dwindled into a shuddering sigh. 

“I’m tired of staying in bed.” Cass’s complaint was no longer sulky as it had been earlier, just sad in a way that made Cap’s chest ache yet again. 

“I know.” Maybe when the weather cleared he’d reconsider his position on trips outside. Until then, though...

”Maybe a story would help?” 

“Don’t you have work to do?” He could almost hear the way Cass's eyebrow lifted to match her skeptical tone. 

“It can wait. Besides,” he winced at another snarky little ***ping!*** “I wasn’t getting much done anyway.” 

"Because of me.” 

“Because," (he figured he could admit this to her) “of that incredibly distracting leak. It’s driving me crazy just like an itchy foot you can't scratch." Cass chuckled again, and Cap gave the shoulder a little inviting shake. “So, still up for that story?”

At that Cass threw off her blanket and sat up, beaming so the sun shone indoors even if its face was still hid from the world outside. “Yay!” She smiled up at him. beautifully, then her grin morphed into a shocked expression. 

“What?" At his question Cass burst into uncontrollable laughter, arms wrapped round her middle as she fell back onto the pillows. “What? Cassandra....” 

“You...your face...” she managed out between laughs.

Immediately Cap stood and tromped over to the curtained-off area in search of the small looking-glass he kept around. "What about my-“

His broken-off sentence elicited a fresh round of laughs from Cass as he took in his reflection. “You look like you lost a fight!” Cass crowed, and Cap suddenly remembered, in the midst of his self-recrimination, touching his face with ink-drenched hands. _Whoops._ Well, really only one thing to do about this.

And he did clean it off, but not before taking a few minutes to join in his daughter’s laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that turned out longer than I intended. 
> 
> While I suppose it's debatable whether or not Greek myths would exist in Corona, I've named enough horses in the royal stables after characters in them in my WIPs that I decided to go on ahead with their inclusion. Plus, I figured Little Cass would enjoy them (her opinions line up perfectly with those expressed by my 8-year-old self). 
> 
> It felt awkward writing 'her plush owl' or 'plush owl' a dozen times, so I went ahead and named it. Being Cass, she wasn't terribly creative; being me who has trouble with names, I took inspiration from a conversation I overhead in a mall years ago. He's Mine.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this! If so, please leave a comment or kudos; each and every one is duly appreciated! Again, thank you so much for reading!


	2. Oh Christmas Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The barracks Christmas tree is never much to look at, all twisted trunk that can't decide which way to go and crooked branches that look as though they never knew needles. And yet, for some reason Cap can't fathom, Cass can't stop staring at the thing...
> 
> Set during Cass's first Christmas season at the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I know it's January and this is a few weeks late, but I really didn't want to sit on this for twelve months. Hope you enjoy!

“Ta da! What do you think?” 

Cap looked up from the security plans he and Captain Williams were putting the finishing touches on. Stan and Pete were standing in the doorway grinning like idiots with world’s sorriest excuse for a pine tree between them. He grimaced. “I think you’re nuts if you think that thing’s going to have any needles left by Christmas.” 

Corona was a land rife with traditions, and the royal guard barracks were not exempt from this kingdom-wide trait. Every year on December first, like clockwork, Captain Williams sent a couple of men, typically the newest, greenest recruits, to head out into the mainland forests and chop him down a Christmas tree to put in his office. And every year, like clockwork, the chosen men returned with something that made Cap question if they actually knew what a tree was. Each year’s offering somehow managed to top the previous one’s in homeliness and Stan and Pete, it seemed, were bent on upholding the precedent. 

The conifer they had dragged into the office under pretense of being a pine tree looked more like an overgrown weed, though if he was being honest Cap had seen fuller, healthier-looking weeds. Patchy to the point where the lieutenant truthfully wondered if trees could catch mange, the body of the thing was scored by large stretches of brown, naked branches, completely devoid of bristly green. Wait, no, now that he was looking at it he could see it was clearly the other way around: isolated patches of green needles tenaciously hanging on to their post amid widespread desertion. Not one of the branches was straight, all protruding crookedly from and equally crooked trunk as though they had been placed by a drunken hand in the dark, with a few sticking out at the oddest angles, reaching for the sky as they begged for a disintegrating lightning strike or plunging down to try and take root in the earth and start fresh. Adding to the ridiculousness was the fact that the top of the ‘tree’ was thick and full like a proper tree should be, verdant bottle-brush branches growing so closely that the trunk was completely hidden from view. It was as though the tree were trying to make up for the dearth of needles down below by affording extra attention and energy to its crown, the localized show of majesty only coming across as derisory considering what the rest of the thing looked like. 

All in all, the withering wooden mess had more in common with the brooms in the closet than a Christmas tree, with the chief difference being that the brooms didn't look like they had marched in all the way from Galcrest. 

But Stan and Pete, intoxicated with pride and excitement wrought from the season and being assigned such an important task, didn’t allow Cap's contemptuous tone to dampen their spirits “Aw, come on,” Stan said, smiling broadly under his mustache. “It only _looks'_ that way; Marilyn’s parents said this thing’ll keep its needles 'til spring!

No sooner had he spoken when a large squadron of dry brownish-green needles cheekily abandoned post and fell to the floor like snow from a laden branch, determined to prove that the parents of the brown-eyed beauty Stan was trying to court (operative word being 'trying') were either woefully mendacious or harbored some sort of dislike for their daughter’s potential lover (probably the latter, if you asked Cap, having met them exactly once and deciding that was too many times). All four men stared at the nascent mess, Cap growling, Williams coughing slightly as he tried to swallow a laugh, and Stan looking as though he was just now realizing there may be some credence to Pete’s hunch that Marilyn’s parents didn’t like him (and he really thought he was making progress, seeing how her father didn’t call him a half-wit this time!). 

Pete found his voice first and, picking up the ‘tree,’ carried it to the corner where Williams had set up a stand earlier, more needles liberating themselves as he went. “It’ll look better once it's decorated. These things always do.” 

“Yeah!” Stan agreed, perking up at his friend’s face-saving words (Pete was such a good wingman) and turned to the Captain and Lieutenant with an eager if not slightly desperate expression. “You’ll see!” With that, he bolted out of the room, Pete on his heels, to hunt up enough trimmings to compensate for the lack of needles, a pair of clipped “Yes, Sir!” echoing from the corridor in response to Cap’s shouted command to bring a broom too (if it wasn't’ guaranteed to make a bigger mess, he would have just used the tree). 

The ace tree-finders gone, Williams allowed the laugh loose and strode to the corner to inspect the thing leaning tiredly against the wall. “Well, gotta say, I’m mighty impressed; didn’t think they could top the half-and-half spruce from last year.” 

Cap felt a grin pull at the corner of his lips in spite of himself as he remembered last year's tree, an entire half completely devoid of needles, and the way Carlos had turned scarlet as he sputtered that it looked fine from the front and he didn’t think to check the back. Williams had a point: he honestly hadn't thought a more ridiculous tree stood on the face of the earth and supposed there was something laudable about managing to dredge up such a specimen (he wasn't sure what sort of something, but definitely something). 

Abandoning the maps and schedules for the moment, he strode to join Williams in the corner. He hefted the tree easily, shaking loose another flurry of needles to litter the floor (good thing he’d thought to send for a broom), and the half grin dropped into a disapproving frown, amusement falling along with the needles. “Still, Sir, couldn’t you have asked someone else? Someone who knows how to pick a tree?” _And won’t be blinded by some inane desire to please Corona’s crotchetiest couple_.“Yuri, perhaps?” (there were some benefits to having a know-it-all on the guard).

“What, and break with tradition?” Williams teased he knelt down and started to navigate the trunk into the stand and fasten it in place. “Cap, where’s your holiday spirit? Besides,” he glanced up through the needleless branches with a wink. “It ‘s not like you did much better the _one time_ I sent you out.” 

Cap tried not to think about that tree.

“Still,” Cap countered, regarding the tree pensively as the captain straightened and started brushing another dozen dead needles from his gray hair, "don’t you think it would be nice to have a decent tree for once? One that doesn't look like it's been dead for two months?”

Williams sent a shrewd look in Cap’s direction. “Awfully picky ‘bout the tree this year, son. I’m guessing Stan isn’t alone in trying to impress someone?” 

Cap colored and became suddenly interested in an especially crooked branch, fiddling with the gnarled twigs until one came off in his hand with a dry *snap.* He twirled it between his fingers, sliding his gaze over to the bedroll in the back corner of the room where a mess of black curls spilled over drab olive blankets that rose and fell with untroubled sleeping breaths, and felt something in him spin to rival the twig in his hand. He wasn't a believer in people having sixth senses or any sort of junk like that, but he made an exception for the unnervingly astute captain, who had once again pinpointed with startling accuracy the thing that spurred his sentiments.

As November had neared its end and the first breezes of the season to come started to wend their way through the streets of Corona, they had carried with them a certain realization, one that caused a tumbling, irrationally excited feeling to frolic through his chest. It was impractical, unbecoming, and he had bodily shoved it aside and promised himself he wouldn’t pay it any mind. But as holly started to sprout in shopkeepers’ windows, signposts became festooned in bristly scarves of evergreen, and yuletide cheer successfully infiltrated the kingdom even as the monarchs forewent their usual grand festivities (because Coronans as a whole had a need to celebrate as strong as that for food and drink), that proved easier said than done. 

When the calendar had finally turned that morning he hadn’t been able to help his broad smile as that realization forced itself to the fore at last: it was his first Christmas as a father, his first Christmas with Cassandra. And while he was far from a sentimental person, well, even he couldn’t deny that this was a sentimental sort of occasion, especially considering what her past holidays had no doubt been like. 

The twig cracked in surprise as it was crunched in the gloved fist, playing the role of punching bag since the girl's blasted mother wasn't handy; he doubted even the most Promethean storyteller could envision the witch actually celebrating something with her daughter, and Cass deserved far better than that. “I just...want her to have a nice one,” he said at last, not meeting Williams' gaze. “She’s had a rough year.”

Williams hummed with understanding and nodded before clapping Cap on the shoulder, commiserative tone pulling the man’s eyes over to meet his. “I know, but don’t worry; I’m sure she will. ‘Specially if she gets to spend it with her daddy.” (Cap didn’t think he would ever not warm at least a little upon hearing the appellation). The tree was indicated with a jaunty head tilt. “And help with the trimming, naturally. Why don’t you-“ 

“Trim what?” 

Both men nearly jumped out of their boots at the drowsy voice that was much closer than they expected and turned to find Cass standing alongside them, rubbing her eyes and trying to push wakefulness back into them. “Hey, hon,” Cap said, successfully keeping the surprise out of his voice (how was she so good at sneaking up on people?). He crouched down and laid a hand atop her head, using his thumb to stroke the bangs out of her face. ”Slept okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” Cass nodded, blinking up at him with a little smile and leaning into his hand like a pup craving the touch of its favorite person. 

”Good.”

One yawn and several blinks later brought a return of the sought-after wakefulness, and Cass let her eyes, now fully alert, wander across the room, taking all of a second to find the large scraggly brownish thing in the corner that most definitely wasn’t there when she went down for a nap. “What’s that?”

“That,” Williams said with the voice of a showman before Cap could offer a salt-flavored answer, “is the barracks official Christmas tree!” 

Cass took a few steps closer and regarded it with tilted head and squinted gaze. “You sure?” She knew what a Christmas tree was; she had seen one in Uncle Monty’s shop last week, but it looked nothing like this. Uncle Monty’s was fluffy and fat and a nice dark green with a pleasant tangy pine smell. This one was skinny and bare and brown and— she took a sniff and scrunched her nose- whatever that smell was, it was most definitely _not_ pine.

Behind her, Cap sent Williams an ‘I told you so’ look, which the captain deftly ignored. “Eeyup!”

“But it doesn’t look like Uncle Monty’s Christmas tree.”

“Uh..well...” Williams glanced at Cap, who wasn’t helpful, then went to stand next to the alleged Christmas tree and fondle one of the more respectable upper branches. “This is an....extra special Christmas tree.” 

Cass eyed him skeptically, and touched a hesitant hand to a branch; the five remaining needles fled her fingers. It sure didn’t look special; if anything, it looked dead. But maybe dead Christmas trees were unusual and, hence, special? If so, she’d rather be usual and generic and have a nice-smelling green one. She walked around it, peering up into the boughs and at the bole, taking care not to touch any more flimsy branches lest the handful of remaining needles quit, trying to see what the Captain saw in the weedy thing. 

Nope, nothing remarkable; if anything, she’d seen nicer logs in the woodpile. 

Cass was about to say so and propose setting up one of said logs instead when something caught her eye. She froze and stared up into the thick green branches at the top, the only part that looked remotely like a tree. 

“So, Cass,” her dad was asking, an uncertain note in his voice, “What do you think?” 

Without taking her eyes off the tree, Cass smiled, big and wide, and nodded with unrestrained enthusiasm. Captain Williams was right, this _was_ a special tree, and wasn’t she lucky! 

******************************

“See?” Captain Williams said a few days later, breath steaming in the brisk air as him and Cap traded the chill of the barracks for that of the training yard, heading out for the day’s exercises. “I told you she’d like it.” 

Cap gave a dubious nod. “Yeah, she does, I’ll grant you that. But don’t you think there’s something...odd about it?” 

"Odd?” Williams questioned as they rounded a corner and the yard came into view, complete with men stamping in place, blowing on their hands, and envying the maids and cook’s helpers who were inside mending skirts and boiling water in front of fires (Cap silently scoffed at their show of discomfort; no matter if it was unseasonably cold for early December, it was still December. Did they expect balmy temperatures?).

“What’s odd about it? Kids love looking at Christmas Trees.” 

“Even when there’s nothing decorating them?” 

Williams paused, hand on the gate, frowning in thought. “Okay, I will admit, that is a little odd.” 

Ever since the tree had been brought into the captain’s office, Cass had found a new favorite activity: staring at it. Intensely. All day. From the moment she got up she’d be champing at the bit to run into the office and, once there, park herself in the exact same spot on the floor and glue her eyes, wide with agog, at the localized bushiness. topping the pathetic plant. Pulling her away was next to impossible, and it was with no small amount of panic that Cap checked her for a fever when she honest-to-goodness _turned down_ a trip into town. Eventually evening would come and Cap would drag her back to the apartment, albeit unwillingly. The only thing keeping her from planting her heels, refusing to budge, and camping out right there on the floor was his repeated assurances that the tree would still be there the next day.

Her behavior would have made at least a little sense if the tree were worth looking at, draped in garlands and hung with baubles or gewgaws to cover the bare branches, but Stan and Pete had been unable to find the box of decorations and everyone distinctly remembered someone else putting them away last year. The incredibly mature game of pass the buck had only ended when Williams declared that the tree would just look as nature intended (nature was cruel) until someone found the time to string cranberries or something, leaving the office occupied by one nearly naked tree that Cass apparently thought was the most fascinating thing to spring from a seed.

Truth be told, he had mixed feelings about the whole situation. On the one hand, the days since the tree’s arrival had been blissfully free of the sorts of disruptive antics and migraine-inducing shenanigans that were now a regular occurrence in the barracks and always had Cass at the epicenter (it had been days since he’d heard Carlos shriek to wake the dead as he was surprised by an impish curly head popping up where he least expected). On the other, there was something acutely unnatural and, as followed, unnerving, about Cass's abrupt change in behavior, a sentiment he now saw reflected in Williams' face as he thought the matter over. 

“Well,” he said after a pensive moment, pushing the gate open and giving it a few confirming shakes once he shut behind them it lest _someone_ find it unlatched, slip in, and start chucking arrows like they were javelins (not that that 'someone' had set foot outside as of late). “Maybe she’s just taken by the sight of a tree indoors.”

“Maybe....” Cap was unconvinced, studying the stiff winter grass that crunched under his boots as they approached the men, milling about in shivery knots and not bothering to pull themselves into an orderly line at their captain’s approach (cold weather tended to beget inertia).

Williams waved a flippant hand, dispelling the air of the unease that clouded about their heads. “I’m sure the novelty will wear off soon and she’ll be back to scrambling all over creation and trying to turn you gray. You’ll see. Alright then!” Williams' shouted final words were directed at the men, jaws shaking as their teeth chattered. He clapped his hands, the sound still cracking in the winter air like a whip despite being muffled by thick gloves. “Laps before someone’s ear ices over and falls off. I have seen it happen, men!” One would have thought the grass spontaneously combusted judging by how the men, as one, took off to tear around the field like their lives depended on it, and Cap allowed a quick chuckle before joining them. No one could motivate like the captain.

Thus Cap shoved all thoughts about Cass and her abnormal fascination with pine trees that really should be put out of their misery to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the familiar world of soldering (at least that still made sense). And shoved they stayed until an hour or so later when he glimpsed a short, lissome figure clad in a familiar brown coat scurrying about near a meticulously stacked woodpile. Only one person in the castle was such a height and had such a coat. 

Cap momentarily diverted his attention from the men falling down the climbing wall to watch her, his sense of worry that she'd try and climb the woodpile again (please don't...) surpassed by relief. Once again Williams was proven right: the novelty had apparently worn off and Cass was back to doing normal-Cass-things. 

But as Cap's eyes tracked the distant brown blur, the contented expression melted into a puzzled one. Huh. As atypical as normal-Cass-things could be, they never included...this. She was erratically dashing about he grass, occasionally diving down so she landed stomach-first on the iron ground, only to immediately stand again and dart off in a new direction. _What in Corona is she doing?_

Part of Cap wanted to march over there that instant and ask that question point-blank before she knocked out a tooth or split open her lip, official duties be hanged, but he stopped himself even as his weight was shifting to take a step. He wanted her to get out of the office and do something else besides stare at that darn tree, right? And she wasn’t bothering anyone or doing something dangerous (well, apart from repeatedly belly-flopping on the dirt, which was actually less risky than most of her boredom-defeating solutions). So who was he to step in and question her choice of pastime? Besides, he wanted her to grow up independent, unafraid to make choices about things like how to spend her time. Him hovering over her and poking in at every turn to tell her what to not do or where to not go, especially when possible bone-breaking action wasn't imminent, was certainly counter-productive to that goal. 

Resolving, then, to leave her to her own harmless devices (or, at least, he hoped harmless), Cap turned back to the training session, letting the sight of Williams scaling the climbing wall with a speed and agility that a man half his age would envy to prise Pete loose from where he was griping the top of the wall with white knuckles, having finally made it to the top only to remember that he wasn’t particularly fond of heights, chase away his disquieting feelings for the time being.

They returned though, stronger than ever before, when he returned to the barracks to thaw his fingers, hunt up some lunch, and locate Cass (not in that order). No sooner had he stepped through the door when one of the items on his list was achieved. Cass, brimming with purpose, was marching down the hall leading towards the office, still wearing her coat, front smeared with dirt and winter damp, and clutching a small burlap sack. 

Experience had taught him that none of those three observations were a good sign, especially the sack (the last time he caught her with one she'd had a _snake_ coiled inside; that’d been a fun afternoon). Cap easily caught up to her and, eyeing the sack warily, asked, “Cass, what do you have in the sack?” (please don’t say a snake...)

“Mice.” 

Oh that’s a relief- wait...

Cap was halted in his tracks as Cass's matter-of-fact reply sunk in.

_"Mice?!?"_

"Uh-huh," Cass nodded, continuing to march down the hall, completely unfazed by her father's outburst. “They're to feed the owl.”

Okay, now he’d heard everything. 

Cap sprinted a few steps to catch up to his daughter and stood in front of her, blocking her path, too taken aback by her stated goal to assume the sort of forbidding, scolding expression that the situation called for and instead looking the definition of bewilderment. "Cassandra, what on earth are you talking about? What owl?”

“The one in the Christmas tree,” she spoke as though the answer was obvious. “He hasn’t eaten since he got here, and if he doesn’t eat, he’ll get so thin we’ll be able to see right through him, and then where will we be?”

Then again, maybe there were still some things left to hear. 

Well, at least Cap knew she listened to Dagmar’s repeated dire pronouncement for the consequences of skipping meals, for whatever that was worth. "Cass,” he rubbed his temple as though trying to alleviate the headache he _knew_ would be hammering away there later. “There is no owl in the Christmas tree.” How did she even get that idea?

“Yes there is! I saw it!” 

“It was probably just a shadow or a weird looking branch” (Lord knew that tree had plenty).

“But it _blinked_ at me!” 

Cap loosed a long-suffering sigh and stared down at her wearily (did all parents go through this?). She was looking up at him with a set expression, eyes holding the tiniest bit of apprehension for disagreeing with him but face otherwise the very picture of confident determination. He considered. Ever since she became a part of his life, he had been determined to do right by her and try to be the sort of parent she deserved, working to undo the damage left behind by her obviously-neglectful, probably-abusive mother as best he could. And despite his inexperience and persistent doubts in his abilities, it appeared his efforts, miraculously, hadn't been in vain; the girl standing before him was a world removed from the sullen, withdrawn little thing he'd brought back to the castle earlier that year (though she could do to be a little less brazen; he shuddered to think of the sorts of scrapes that attitude could land her in as she got older). He didn't want to discourage that fledgling streak of assertiveness. But at the same time the sheer ridiculousness of what she was saying, that there was an _owl_ squatting in the Christmas tree for the past several days that none of them (barring Cass) had noticed, could not *possibly* be true, making this situation one that called for reprimand lest she think he abetted tale-telling. 

Down below, Cass held her miniature glower, the glowing embers in her eyes spouting sparks alongside surety, and Cap let his arms drop to his sides, a gesture of concession. She was so sure of what she saw, and he knew she wasn't one to fib (if anything, he should be chastised for thinking she would start out of the blue); the least he could do was give her the benefit of the doubt and prove her wrong rather than simply shut her down like Frederic taking something 'under advisement.' 

“Hun," he began patiently, "I really don’t think there’s an owl in the tree-” 

“Yes there is!“ 

“-but we can go and check. Then you can see that there's nothing there-"

"I told you, there's an owl!"

"-and get rid of those,” he pointed at the burlap, now jiggling in her grasp as its captives tried to stage a breakout, " _outside_. Understand?” 

Cass scowled at her boots, scuffing them against the stone floor as she argued back in her head (she knew she was right; branches didn’t blink), then gave a curt if not sulky nod. She could sense she was treading dangerously close to 'getting in trouble' territory, could practically see the dark storm brewing on the horizon and dreaded it. But her father's very sensible proposed course of action served as a golden ray piercing the black and promising the welcome coming of sun. He’d see she was right, and then praise her for having such sharp eyes and discovering something he apparently missed and everyone else apparently forgot about (how no one besides her had thought to feed the owl that made their Christmas tree extra special was beyond her). So she didn’t complain and followed behind him as he walked the rest of the way to the office, eyes fixed on the muddied heels of his boots. 

“Lieutenant! Cass!” Pete’s bouncing voice frisked about the pair as they entered the room. He stepped towards them, arms full of a large bowl overflowing with cranberries, popcorn, and a few sun-shaped cookies, hefting it in the air as though it were a sought-after prize. "Guess what? We’ve solved the decoration problem!”

“Yeah,” Stan beamed from the corner where the tree stood, fluffing the middle section and causing what was left of the needles to swoon away at to his attentions. “They were just lying around in the kitchen ready to go! Can you believe it!”

"It certainly is lucky,” Williams agreed from the desk, standing and moving to Pete’s side where he relieved the bowl of a cookie and took a bite, shedding light on why there were only ‘a few.’ “Dagmar must’ve pulled something together for us. I’ll thank her later.” He turned to Cass. “So, Cass, wanna help decorate the tree?” 

“No,” Cass said flatly, looking up at Williams and his half-eaten cookie with more seriousness than Cap had ever seen on a five-year-old. 

“No?" Williams drew back in surprise that was mirrored by Stan and Pete as all three stared, Williams’ shock the greatest of the bunch since kids loved decorating Christmas trees. “Why not?”

“We’re going to look at the owl.” Cass drew herself up and squared her shoulders, looking Very Important, as though she were on a mission to clear her name from a most grievous misunderstanding (which she was; out of all the arguments in the world, none were more important than those debating who was right). 

Williams brow furrowed and he looked at the rufous-faced Cap. “Owl? What owl?”

As he posed the question Stan continued fluffing the tree, reaching into the tree’s bushy green top to better arrange the only decent-looking part of the pine. His hand moved past the pricking tips, into the bristly boughs, and all the way back to the trunk, where they poked- 

"AAAIIEEE!” Stan's high-pitched scream was promptly drowned out by an ear-bleeding shriek that followed it as a black blur burst out from the tree and started flapping wildly about the room. Immediately Pete followed Stan’s example, beating his hands wildly about his head lest the flying fiend find roost on his helmet, dropping the large bowl with a ***crash*** and causing the ceramic to shatter and contents to spill and bounce and roll across the floor. Williams instantly set to work trying to catch the thing, swearing profusely with each missed swipe as the feathers barely bushed his fingertips, while Cap alternated between assisting his commander and trying to keep himself between _it_ and Cass, who was jumping in place shouting, “I told you! I told you! I told you there was an owl!”, positively elated by the wonderful commotion and the fact that she was _right!_

For there really was an owl in the room, swooping and dipping and banking just out of reach of its would-be captors, pulling into all manner of hairpin turns and swirling loops as it dodged windows with penning glass, walls devoid of perches, or clawing white-gloved fingers that rose before him like spiderwebs or hunters' nets brought to life, raising Hell all the while. The large orange eyes searched the room desperately for, if not an escape, some safe harbor in which to light, the sanctity of his tree having been irrevocably disturbed. He wove between the grabbing hands and flailing arms for a small eternity before, sans any warning beyond a glint in the orange, at last diving into a landing.

A fraught silence descended on the room as quickly as it had fled, the air holding still, as all four men’s stares were trained on the owl glaring evilly at them from the top of Cass’s head, scimitar talons resting dangerously close to the delighted hazel eyes. “So," Williams said in a tone that was superficially light, "I’m guessing that’s the owl?” The hiss he received from the thing crouched among the raven curls was enough of an answer.

Because the 'thing' was most definitely an owl. Not a terribly big one, about half the size of the stuffed horned sentry in the king's study, but it looked thrice the size thanks to the air of ferocity it emanated. Feathers black enough to cause soot envy seemed to rattle like a snake's tail as they were ruffled, eyes burning with the eternal fires of Hell tried to set the room aflame, and its beak, as hard and sharp as any arrow tip in an archer's quiver, caught and held the light prisoner, highlighting the honed edges. And as if the bird didn't look menacing enough, the round head was crowned by twin feathers sprouting upwards from its crest and curving slightly towards one another like a pair of devilish horns. All in all, it looked every ounce a demon sprung from one of Xavier's bonfire stories. Worse, because Xavier's oral concoctions stayed safely in the legends of yore and were not currently in the barracks quietly menacing the quartet of men from the one spot that gave him a disconcerting amount of leverage.

"Cass, sweetie,” Cap said carefully, making a calming sort of motion with his hands as though the owl would start clawing his daughter’s eyes out if he so much as looked at him wrong. “Don’t move; just stay calm and-“ 

“I am calm,” Cass chirped, not wincing in the slightest at the pricking talons, demeanor as blithe and carefree as if she didn’t have a feather-covered fiend crouching on her head. “He’s a nice owl.” 

Cap seriously wondered how he had so wholly failed to teach his daughter what constituted 'nice' as the very antithesis of it shot daggers in his direction, daring him to go ahead, take that step (of all the owls in Corona, the one stuck in their tree _had_ to be the one most willing to commit murder). 

No one moved, all held prisoner by the glowering owl, Cap and Williams exchanging looks as they had a silent conversation about whether or not the other had any idea what to do (they were guards, not falconers), Pete chewing his lip while he debated if hazarding a break for the door was worth it (my, what sharp claws that thing had), and Cass grinning up with the purest delight at her new friend (no one else in Corona had an owl for a friend. She was special!). 

“So, uh...”

Stan peered out from the corner where he using the twiggy tree as an ineffective shield, eyeing the winged devil with distrust as he wondered whether or not it had been planted there by Marilyn’s parents (did they really dislike him enough to send a bird to slit his throat?) "What do we do now?” 

“We feed him!”

Cass joyously upended her sack, releasing half a dozen mice to scamper across the floor in half a dozen different directions, just as Dagmar entered the room in hunt of the bowl of tree decorating foodstuffs she had set aside for someone who wasn’t Stan and Pete. 

Pandemonium gained a new definition.

******************************

“I just don’t know, Friedborg,” Arianna mused as she navigated the winding hallways of the castle, lady-in-waiting at her side, down to the wing housing the servants' quarters and kitchens, passing through smiling beams of golden winter sunlight as they went. “It’s not like Dagmar to vanish like this.” 

Friedborg glanced at the queen striding alongside her and blinked in response. Arianna’s ensuing nod was accompanied by an unconvinced hum, the stoic guard they passed raising an eyebrow at the strange sight of his sworn queen carrying on what had to be a one-sided conversation with the enigma that was Friedborg. “Yes, I know she's quite busy, especially this time of year, even without all the usual festivities-” 

The queen halted her words and steps as they turned a corner into a thankfully deserted hall, her voice catching on the choking lump of emotion that had been lodged uncomfortably in her throat since that one horrible night in spring. One fine hand flew up to cover her mouth and trap the sob that threatened to burst forth at thoughts of what this holiday season should have been, spiraling through her mind like so many flakes in a blizzard, each one at once beautiful and biting, and it was only thanks to Friedborg’s sympathetic hand rubbing her shoulder that she stayed standing and not collapsed into a miserable pile on the marble floor. “Thank you, Friedborg,” she managed after a moment, patting the woman's hand and clearing her throat to try and banish the lump (halfway was better than nothing). “You are a lifesaver.” 

Friedborg courteously dipped her head in gratitude, outwardly saying it was a pleasure and privilege to be able to serve her queen thusly, but the miniature luminary that was always in the back of her eyes and only came to the fore for Her Majesty held a cheeky light. _I know._

Arianna’s lips curved a half smile at the unspoken self-congratulatory remark, the closest she could come to a laugh anymore, and the luminary brightened to match the sunbeams. The light suddenly dimmed, though, mismatched green eyes holding a question of their own, and Arianna released a tremulous breath. “Yes, I do still want to do this. It’ll give me something else to think about and, well...” She let her gaze drift out the nearest window to the kingdom down below, every structure from houses to shopkeeper's stalls to a few aggressively festive carts sporting verdant dapples from evergreen boughs and leaves, and stared wistfully at a gaggle of children racing to cluster in front of a mercantile window no doubt packed with colorful toys to long after and wish for. “Just because Fred and I aren’t celebrating doesn’t mean no one else is, and if I can’t make this holiday special for my family-“ she paused again to dash away an insistent tear at the thought of that one member whose whereabouts were still unknown, “the least I can do is make sure someone else’s is.” 

Her and Fred hadn’t discussed what they were or weren’t doing for the holidays; they hadn’t needed too, the desire mutual. Thus no large evergreen had been carried into the castle courtyard, gotten with great difficulty into the grand ballroom, and festooned with velvet ribbons, blown glass baubles, and so many candles it twinkled in a way that turned the stars green with envy, no decadent menu had been submitted to the cook in preparation of a sumptuous banquet, and no notices had been tacked into the palace square announcing the annual Christmas Eve fete. Not even so much as a wreath had been hung on the palace’s many doors (though the barracks and servants' quarters, she knew on good authority, told a different story, one Fred didn't need to hear). Perhaps it was all a bit exiguous, and perhaps a part of her had, at first, wanted to put up at least a holly sprig on a windowsill, but Fred had been half-an-inch away from declaring the holiday royally cancelled, she found holly suddenly melancholic, and that had been that. 

Still, she keenly felt the dearth of activity that typically accompanied December chill, the feeling only adding to her usual pall of dolor. Rather than wish away the month Friedborg had suggested that perhaps they embrace the charitable component of the season and make the holiday for some of Corona’s less fortunate families. Arianna had instantly taken to the idea. They had promptly sought out Dagmar to see about organizing several hampers worth of Christmas turkeys, hams, and pastries to be prepared for delivery on the twenty-fourth, as well as whether or not she knew of anything they could use to create some simple decorations to be given to the orphanage along with a tree. Dagmar had nodded pleasantly and bustled off to deliver a list of holiday provisions to the cook and bring up a bowlful of cranberries and popcorn for stringing and cookies for hanging. That had been well over an hour ago, and with Arianna’s book concluded, Friedborg’s mending completed, and still no sign on the familiar round, ruddy face, they had decided the most logical course of action was to go in hunt of the woman and figure out what was keeping her, offering help if needed.

Continuing on down the hall and stepping through the doorway to the barracks (a shortcut to the kitchens from Her Majesty's sitting room), Arianna returned to that first topic. “I mean, you don’t think anything’s wrong, do you?” She asked, combing an anxious hand through tawny tresses (a bad habit, she knew, but Friedborg would never tell). 

Friedborg frowned, and was about to blink her opinion when life solved the mystery. 

“AAAIIIIEEEE!” 

“GET IT!” 

"THERE IT GOES!"

"DUCK!"

"It's not a duck, it's an-"

"GOD, GET AWAY FROM THAT!"

"But-"

“IT’S IN MY BOOT! IT'S IN MY BOOT!

“OH, BUCK UP AND GRAB IT ALREADY!” 

Clamorous shouts, splintering crashes, and cacophonous screeches ripped through the barracks, causing the stones in the wall to shrink back into their masonry and a suit of armor holding an eternal vigil to tense and grip its halberd tighter. Arianna and Friedborg shared a look, and in the next second cornflower and orchid skirts were gathered up as two pairs of slippered feet sprinted down the hall to the source of the din: the captain’s office. Without pausing in the slightest or waiting for her lady-in-waiting to get it for her, Arianna threw open the door to behold-

...She wasn’t sure what she was beholding.

The scene within defied description, but when Arianna relayed it by letter to her sister that evening she described it something like this: 

Not a corner of the room was without motion. The entire space looked as though a tornado had blown through. Something that she guessed was supposed to be a Christmas tree but looked more like a pile of rejected timber lay on the floor, wasted trunk snapped in two, no, three pieces and withered branches stepped on and snapped and strewn in all directions like some gigantic game of pick-up-sticks. The missing bowl of decorating foodstuffs was finally found, shattered pieces of purple pottery lying amid cranberries (smashed), popcorn (pulverized) and cookies (stomped into crumbs). Interspersed throughout the holiday-themed detritus was a cracked inkwell leaking a pool of blackish-blue blood, an army of paper leaves covering about half the floor like paving stones (some of which were being helpful and sopping up the ink, thereby rendering the meticulously written notes on their faces invisible), and several pens laying haphazardly about, seeking to join the branches in the childhood sport.

The means by which the residents of the desk had wound up scattered about on the floor like soldiers on a losing battlefield was easily supplied thanks to the sight of Dagmar, far from her usual composed, helpful self, crouching atop the captain’s desk just barely not going into hysterics. For all her distress, though, she was still faring better than Stan, tall, broad frame somehow scrunched underneath said desk. 

As to why the desk had suddenly become a sort of safe-harbor, that was answered by the other four people in the room. The Captain, the First Lieutenant, and month-old recruit Pete were racing about in zig-zagged lines, alternating between diving to the ground as they tried to apprehend one of several mice scampering across the floor (she felt Friedborg stiffen beside her) and leaping in the air trying to catch what the queen instantly recognized as a Beezelbird, a rare variety of owl so named for their demonic appearance and matching temper, this one looking particularly vindictive as it simultaneously dodged the grasping hands and dove for the mice, eyes spewing fire with every flap of the ash-colored wings. 

Unsurprisingly Cass was there too, following along after choler on wings, answering her dad’s repeated commands to "Get away from that thing!" with "But I wanna watch!" Never, Arianna was sure, had such chaos graced the Captain’s office, barracks, or even castle as a whole. 

“Um, Captain?” she hazarded for lack of anything better to say, hand on the knob as though she couldn’t decide whether to show decorum and quietly leave or stay and watch the incredibly diverting show. 

Though she hadn’t raised her voice any louder than usual, her words may as well have been shouted with all the might of a bellowing dragon for the effect they had. Every soul, even the mice and owl, now perched on a suit of armor with a tell-tale tail poking out from between two whetted talons, froze to stare at the woman in the doorway as though she were the fabled Gorgon of yore and they were the stone forged by her gaze. 

"Your Majesty,” Williams rushed out, straightening up, panting. He bowed, and Cap followed suit, brushing at a cranberry-colored stain on one knee of his trousers and only smearing the article worse. Pete, Stan, and Dagmar were too stunned to do anything more than stare with wide eyes and parted lips. No one moved, no one spoke, until the owl realized that the woman holding everyone's attention wasn’t _his_ queen and he had no reason to look like a taxidermy. 

“Daddy, it swallows mice _whole!_ ” 

It was indecorous for a queen to laugh at her subjects, especially her servants and the guards sworn to keep her life. But there are exceptions to every rule, and at present, decorum did not know the office.

Let it never be said Her Majesty had nothing to smile about that holiday season.

******************************

“Are you sure we can’t keep him?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Cap said with laudable forbearance for the twelfth time since he and Cass set out on Romulus, spiteful owl in tow, to return him to the forest and find a replacement tree. “He wouldn’t be happy in the barracks.” 

_“I’m_ happy in the barracks.” 

“Well, _you_ aren’t an owl!” Cap rumpled Cass’s hair, smiling fondly at the sentiment she expressed (she was _happy_ with him!) taking care not to disrupt the owl on the pommel giving him a very disconcerting evil eye. “Trust me Cass, he’ll be happier in the woods with lots of trees and other owls.”

_If that thing is capable of being happy_

“Besides,” he said reining Romulus off the path towards the stretch of woods where Herr and Frau Gerhard said they’d gotten the tree (dealing with them had been as pleasant as Cap had expected and made him very glad he didn’t have in-laws). “Remember what the queen said?”

“Yes.” Cass leaned back against her father’s chest, thinking back to the happenings in the office, admiring the owl, now sitting straighter on the saddle as the trees surrounded them, bare branches leaning over the trio with undisguised curiosity. 

After Her Majesty had been able to speak again and the chain of events leading up to the exciting scene she’d been so lucky to walk in on had been explained, all the grown-ups (save the queen) had set to work cleaning up the mess, apologizing way too many times (which made no sense; what was there to be sorry about? The queen seemed to be having a good time). 

Wordlessly excused from mopping and picking-up, Her Majesty had chosen to step over the mess of tree and ink and berries and paper to join Cass in watching the impressive black bird, now running its beak through its glorious midnight feathers. Cass had beamed up at her proudly and asked if the queen liked the new, very useful owl that had come with their Christmas tree (they would never have trouble with mice again!) and who, she had just now decided, was going to live with her and her daddy now that his tree was smashed (Daddy had made a very strange noise behind her at that, one that caused the queen's endless green eyes to sparkle and Captain Williams to cough in that way he did when something funny happened and he still wanted to look 'professional'). 

The queen had smiled in a way that reminded Cass of the sun on an autumn afternoon, warm and bright and unexpected in the best way, and said that, yes, it was a most beautiful bird. But then she’d frowned and said she wondered if the owl had any owl family members back in the forest that he missed. Cass didn’t like thinking about that; she couldn’t bear the thought of losing her daddy, and found herself wondering if the owl had the same aching feeling in his chest she got when daddy left for a days-long trip or she thought about...someone else she loved (why couldn't she remember who?). And even though Cass had smartly suggested that they go to the forest and bring the owl's family back to the barracks so they all could live here (a suggestion that drew more funny noises from her dad and Captain Williams), the queen had sensibly proposed that moving one owl was easier than finding and transporting several.

At Cass’s agreeing nod she’d waved over Daddy, red faced and wearing an expression that looked like trouble for whoever’s fault this was (hopefully not her, since she didn’t knock over the tree, drop the bowl, or forget to feed the owl) and given them both leave to take the bird home “And,” she’d added with the light dancing in her eyes like sun on the bay, “why don’t you find a new tree? One that _isn’t_ broken in three pieces and,” she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper only Cass could hear, “looks like one?” 

Back in the forest that looked both alive and dead in the winter light, the owl started spinning his head in all directions, pumpkin-orange eyes no longer spewing fire but the eager glow of the sun as it prepared to rise in the morning and gaze upon the world it had sorely missed during the night. An ancient, gnarled tree came into view, wizened branches stretching towards them welcomingly. Right in the middle of the trunk, about halfway up, the cracked gray bark parted to reveal an owl-sized black hollow with a twin pair of orange orbs glowering out at the world. 

The owl on the saddle started flapping at once and making the same screeching noises it had in the barracks, though with a far different air, rapturous rather than baleful. In a flurry of onyx and topaz and talons the bird took wing and coasted soundlessly towards the hole and the she-owl that waited within so there were now two pairs of orange eyes staring out at the soldier and his daughter with only some of the old asperity. 

"So that's his home?" Cass asked, staring at the tree and straining her eyes to pick out the black of the birds' from the black of the hollow. 

"Sure seems that way," Cap answered, pulling his gaze away from the devil birds just long enough to glance around the section of forest they were in, noticing the myriad pine trees scattered about, all of which looked miles better than the excuse Stan and Pete had brought back (the things people do when courting...).

Cass copied his actions, turning her head one way then the other with motions as quick and darting as the owl's had been. It really was a nice little patch of forest, with lots of trees and bushes and (if she listened real close) a stream babbling secrets and stories somewhere nearby; if she were an owl, she'd want to live here (so long as her daddy came with her, otherwise she'd just learn to be happy in the barracks). Still... 

"And you're _sure_ we can't take them both home?"

"Yes, I'm sure." Really, Cap had rarely been more sure of anything.

Her wistful expression was almost enough for Cap to seriously reconsider his stance on homicidal birds in the barracks, but his arm tightening around her waist in a halfway hug, a gesture that was followed by her turning just enough to nuzzle one rosy cheek against the wool of his coat with a heart-melting smile on her lips, brought light to her face. "Okay." She raised a mittened hand to wave at the tree. "Bye, nice owl!"

She received a dead-raising screech in response, a sound of genuine gratitude, and tilted her head back to look up at her dad. “The queen was right. He likes it here.”

"Yup," Cap said, heaving a relieved sigh that was mirrored by his mount (at one look Romulus decided the bird was plotting to gouge his eyes out and wouldn’t have objected to ditching the thing in the first tree, shrub, or fence post they encountered) as he hastily reined Romulus, kicked him into a walk, and received a trot instead, both horse and rider eager to put as much distance between themselves and the birds as possible before their moods soured. “He does.”

Cass turned in the saddle and peered behind her father as best she could at the owls' rapidly shrinking tree. “I’m still gonna miss him, though. He was fun.” 

Cap could live with a little less fun. 

“Well,” he said as they approached a stand of pines, “there are other ways to have fun.” _Ways that don’t involve birds looking for blood._ “Like getting that Christmas tree. Think you can find a better one than Stan and Pete?” 

“Yeah!” 

And she did, one that was nice and fluffy and fat with green, just like a Christmas tree should be (the best part was how her dad said it was by far the nicest barracks Christmas tree he'd ever seen). Her dad paused before swinging the ax she was absolutely _not_ allowed to touch, looking at her with a question.

“You don’t see any owls in this one, right?” 

“Nope!” 

Cass was very glad he said nothing about squirrels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day Cap will figure out how to close loopholes, but until then Cass will take advantage of every single one.
> 
> I can honestly say nothing like this has ever happened to me since my family always uses artificial trees, but thanks to a kinda-local news story from a few years ago where a family went out and chopped down their own tree only to find an owl in it a few days later, I know it really can happen.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this silly, out-of-season story! Please consider leaving a kudos or comment if you enjoyed; as always, I love seeing them!


End file.
